A Childlike Smile
by Neon Daisies
Summary: Charlie & the Chocolate Factory ficlet...just a bit of fluff. I'm sure all the fangirls are already thinking it. Not really but kinda romance. As romantic as I get.


**Author's Note: at the moment, this is just a vignette that I had to get out of my head. It was blocking the Morty-goodness of Fractured Secrets (yes! I am working on that, and it should be out by the end of the week at the latest). So, please enjoy this little bit of fluff (yes, I do write the occasional fluff piece), review, tell me to get my butt in gear on FS… ;)**

**Disclaimer: I own no intellectual property that belongs to Roald Dahl, Tim Burton, Plan B Productions, any of the actors, etc. I own Jane because I dabble in graphic design and I know that connection that comes from seeing what other people see.**

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It's sad really, the way I live for our business meetings. That's probably why I don't ponder it often. I mean, half the time I don't even see him. One of the Oompa-Loompas will meet me at a small, disguised service entrance, I'll make my solitary way to the small office where I work – he doesn't like it when designs, even drafts of designs, leave his fortress – and more often than not there's already a dozens sets of thumbnails waiting for me on my drafting desk, all annotated in his peculiar hand.

The life of a graphic designer might not be exciting, but it is fulfilling.

No, that's a lie. Certainly, the job pays well. Mr. Wonka pays me well; well enough to keep me on retainer. Well enough for me to always be ready for the singing telegram (yes, singing telegram) telling me to show up. And the job always forces me to draw on my creativity. Every time I tell him, "No, it can't be done, there's no way to get that on a wrapper/box/package/etc., I'm going to have to make drastic changes…" and so on. But I manage to capture what he wants. And that's what makes the job fulfilling. Knowing that despite the updated and modernized designs sitting in a desk drawer at home and hiding in my laptop, I've managed to do exactly what Mr. Wonka wants.

Mr. Wonka – it seems absurd to call him that. Then again, my thoughts aren't exactly clear when it comes to him anyway. So I suppose it's for the best.

Where was I…?

Oh yes, the fulfilling aspects of my job.

If you haven't guessed by now, I'm the woman behind the wrappers. The lady behind the labels. The scribbler behind the scrumdidlyumptiousness.

Oh, that word gave me trouble….

I worked for Mr. Wonka when he still employed people instead of pygmies (not that I have anything against Oopma-Loompas…until they break into song, but that is another matter entirely). I was "let go" along with the rest, but when Mr. Wonka restarted his factory, I got the first musical message asking me to report to the "north southwestern entrance" which happens to be _underground_…

I digress. And let details slip. Forget that you heard that last sentence.

What I love about my job is face time with the boss. He's…creative? That seems too tame a word, but genius…that's not quite it either. He's Wonka. I don't suppose there's a word that suits him better.

He's a visionary in that he knows exactly what he wants – which is why half the time I never even see him, just those piles of thumbnails – and…there's just an energy around him. If he ever set his mind on world domination, we'd all be in trouble. And I'd be behind him, designing his manifestos and propaganda pamphlets.

I'm in deep.

Not that he's ever noticed. I swear that sometimes he forgets that he's summoned me. I swear I can see the surprise in his eyes when he notices that I'm a woman and not an Oompa-Loompa. And my name…you wouldn't think Jane is a hard name to remember…especially since I've reminded him every time we've met for the past fifteen years.

That's right. Fifteen years. And still I find myself sighing. And wondering if there's something severely wrong with me that I should find such a childlike smile and manner so attractive.

Told you I was pitiful.

Yet, here I am standing at the hidden service entrance, checking my watch to mark the minutes and seconds to the door's appointed opening time, rocking back and forth in my sneakers…


End file.
